


Five Ways Smike's Story Could Have Ended

by Tam_Cranver



Category: Nicholas Nickleby - Dickens
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-04
Updated: 2010-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-08 17:19:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tam_Cranver/pseuds/Tam_Cranver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically what you'd expect, given the title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Ways Smike's Story Could Have Ended

i

The winters are always terrible for the boys out in the barn and working around the grounds, and this is no exception. While the Squeerses sit around the fire and eat and laugh about how fortunate life has been to them, the boys feed the animals and mend the fences and clear the drive in case any visitors should somehow find their way to Dotheboys Hall for a warm cup of something or to throw their son away.

Smike is the oldest, but the boys don't look to him for instruction—everyone knows he can't give it. Squeers had considered hiring another teaccher, but his wife had decided for him that they didn't need one. The Squeerses themselves were too busy stoking their fire and eating hot roasted chestnuts to tell the boys what to do, so they worked more to keep themselves warm than for fear of punishment.

They build a little shelter out of snow. Smike is too weak to lug the snow about, so he sits and watches. The cold has found its way deep into his bones; he barely notices it anymore. He watches the way the shelter grows, like a skull poking its way out of the white earth. The wind howls and whips at his face; his chest burns as he wonders at the warmth.

He feels the barest hints of something awfully sad pull at his mind, but he cannot grasp the whole of the feeling anymore. Another boy died last night, but the ground is too cold to bury him and he no longer has the strength to lift the shovel anyway. The Squeerses are hard-pressed to spare even the usual gruel and bread to the boys in the winter, and the boys often awake of a morning to find that the night has carried away one of their own. The bodies lie in a pile behind the barn. There are four now, and Greymarsh had asked if he might find something to cover them with, so the little boys wouldn't see, but the snow has done that for them.

The boys cannot quite make a roof to their little house; they've piled snow on the opening in the ceiling twice now, but they haven't packed it enough and it collapses each time.

Smike feels a very distant pain, and thinks. In a way, the cold is a blessing, because Squeers can't muster up the effort to hit Smike. The burning in his chest grows ever stronger, though, and he has lost the will to eat—-not that there is anything to eat, anyway. There is a steadily increasing ache in all his limbs, but he finds he doesn't mind it so much. He watches in absent-minded contentment as the boys manage at last to make their roof stay up.

They laugh and shout, and call to him. "Smike!" one of them says, "Come see!"

But Smike finds that his eyelids are getting remarkably heavy. Smiling at the boy who called to him, he lays his head down. The snow is soft and cold, but as he lets his mind slip away, he finds himself getting warmer, and his pain seems to vanish like ice under a hot sun.

 

ii

Sooner or later, Nicholas would be back. Smike just knew it. One day, having rescued his family and gotten a job and a big house with room enough for Smike, he'd come back. But in the meantime, Smike was really getting to like this theatre business.

There weren't very many roles for haggard and crippled young men with limited capacity for remembering lines, but that was quite all right. The stage bit was much more frightening without Nicholas there. But Mr. Crummles found plenty of things Smike could do, painting sets and moving props and caring for the temperamental pony. Everyone was very kind to him, and he and Mr. Folair came to be quite good friends.

Still, at every show they did, Smike peeked out from behind the curtain to see if Nicholas was in the audience. He never learned not to expect it; he was disappointed every time.

 

iii

He'd begged Mr. Nickleby to take him along when he went. He'd promised not to be any trouble, not to eat much, to help Mr. Nickleby with…whatever he needed. But he'd known all along that Mr. Nickleby was too good for the likes of him. He hadn't been at all surprised when Mr. Nickleby smiled sadly and said, "I can't, Smike. I can barely care for myself and my family. But I wish you all the best."

Smike had sat there for a while, looking at the impression in the dirt where Mr. Nickleby had slept through the night. Then he'd gotten up and walked, best as he could and as far as he could. He didn't know where he was going, but he'd die before he went back to Squeers.

He'd finally dropped by the roadside. He thought for a moment that might be a bad idea, since Mr. Squeers had found him there last time, but without the road, he just wandered in circles. This way, when he woke up, he'd be able to find his way to someplace. And anyway his leg wouldn't carry him any farther.

A warm hand shook him awake. "Hallo!" a voice said. He recognized it—it was that man who came sometimes to call on Miss Fanny, the one who was courting Miss Tilda. Mr.—Mr.—he couldn't remember the name. He cringed, awaiting the blow.

Instead, the warm hand pulled him to his feet. "Well!" the man said, looking him up and down. "You're a sight, you are! Hey, en't you the school-master's boy?"

"I…I…Please…"

"Whoa, easy there, boy," the man said. He gripped Smike's shoulder firmly, but not too tightly. "All right?" Smike was too afraid to speak, but the man didn't seem to mind. He nodded and said, "All right, then! You aren't half dirty! Did you sleep out here all night?" His hand moved down. "Hey, what's this, then? You're bleeding!"

"I couldn't help it!" Smike cried, cringing.

"I didn't--" The other man shut his mouth for a second firmly, his face getting darker by the second. Finally he said, "The school-master?"

Smike nodded miserably.

The man shook his head. "Rotter," he said, but he didn't seem to be talking to Smike. He looked at Smike again and smiled. "'ere, take my walking staff. Looks like you need it more than me. Come on, then, you can stay with me."

Smike hesitated for a moment, feeling completely lost. Then he felt the solid wood of the staff in his hands. He gripped it with all his strength and walked forward.

 

iv

They put him on the floor of the carriage, which was about as bad as Smike could imagine, what with their horrible grinning faces floating above him. They'd tied him hand and foot and every so often Master Wackford would give him a kick and Mr. Squeers would laugh.

All he could think was that he was going to die, for surely he could not live there anymore. It had almost killed him once, and it could not but kill him if he went back. And oh, Nicholas and Miss Kate and Mrs. Nickleby would think him horribly ungrateful for running away! Who would tell them that he hadn't meant to, that he wouldn't ever leave them?

Miss Fanny wrinkled her nose at him. "Do we have to have him here in the carriage?" she cried again for the thousandth time. "He smells something awful."

"Hush, girl!" Mr. Squeers said, scowling at her. "I ain't letting him out of my sight until we get home! I'll teach him to run away again!" He kicked Smike in the side and Master Wackford squealed in delight.

Oh, God, oh, God, what was he to do? He couldn't run, bound as he was, and even if he was somehow freed, he couldn't run fast enough to escape their horses. If only Nicholas were here, he'd beat them all and take Smike home with him. But he wasn't, and they were far out of the city now, and how would Nicholas ever find him? Oh, there was no hope, no hope at all!

He began to cry. Mr. Squeers bellowed at him to shut it, and he would have if he could, but he couldn't, and he shook with sobs all the way back to Yorkshire.

 

v

He'd thought he was dying, there, that day under the tree. It was so quiet and warm and Nicholas was sitting there, holding him—it would have been a comforting way to die. But his breath kept coming, harsh and uneven, and he couldn't help wondering what other stories Nicholas and Kate had about the trees and fields in this pleasant green country.

Finally Nicholas had said, "Why don't we go back to the cottage and you can have a rest?" Smike didn't think he had the energy to make it that far, but he stood up and leaned on Nicholas's shoulder and to his surprise, he did. Nicholas finally picked him up and carried him at the very end, but he'd made it quite far, almost on his own. He was proud of himself.

He had good days and bad days. On good days he got out of bed and sat in the garden with Nicholas; on bad ones he writhed in his bed, wracked with fever and coughing up mucus into a pot Nicholas kept by the bed. Through all the days good and bad Nicholas was by his side, comforting and loving. He never spoke of what Smike had told him about Kate, for which Smike was terribly grateful. He burned with shame when he thought of how he'd sighed over that lock of hair. Surely Kate would never forgive him if she knew.

He didn't know how long it was before he was well again. It might have been days, it might have been months. But at any rate, one day a doctor drove out to the cottage, poked at Smike and declared to Nicholas, "Well, he ain't hale by anyone's definition, but he's better."

They'd started back for the city, then. The carriage ride up was silent, broken only by the carriage's complaints as they went over rocks in the road. Finally, Nicholas said, "Smike?"

Smike rallied his attentions as best he could.

"Smike, Kate, she…well, she cares very much for you. But I don't feel as if you would suit each other very well as man and wife, if you'll pardon my saying it."

"I know," Smike sighed, feeling a twinge of familiar despair. "Only…she's so beautiful, and she's been so kind to me."

"Oh, Smike," Nicholas said, and he laid a hand on Smike's shoulder. "As much as I would delight if you were to become my brother, don't feel as if Kate is the only person who can make you happy. As far as I'm concerned, you're part of our family already. And the world is full of women, beautiful ones, and people who will be kind to you."

"You have been kinder to me than anyone in the world," Smike said, and he rested his head on Nicholas's breast. Nicholas moved his hand to stroke Smike's hair. They stayed like that all the way to London.


End file.
